


A Word Alone Holds More Significance

by PurpleLex



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Emma POV, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, I don't know how to work these tags, Sylar and Claire are mostly friends, slow build romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleLex/pseuds/PurpleLex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Coolidge Petrelli's life told as prompted by words lettered A through Z.</p><p>"There are a lot of moments of happiness and sadness, excitement and dread, love and unease, the good and the bad, but when Emma thinks of her life, she regrets very few things."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Word Alone Holds More Significance

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAT!!!
> 
> Ehem. This is dedicated to you, lovely wonderful person, because it's your birthday and you need more Pemma (and mild Sylaire) in your shipping life! I hope you like it *kisses*

  ****

**Amiss**  ::  _adverb; in an incorrect, inappropriate, or defective manner_

When Emma was a child, she dreamed of becoming a doctor. She grew up in the hospital day care program and often found solace in the corner of the third floor reception desk. Her mother said that she possessed the same vocabulary of a regular nurse by the age of fourteen. She stayed out of any and all cliques during school, preferring her friends outside of the plaster walls and stained desks.

Her sister did not hold the same aspirations. Hailey cringed at the sight of blood and disliked the chemical smell that persisted in the hospital halls, never quite getting used to either the way Emma did. She doodled in swirls along the margins of music sheets instead of texts. She ran the dance club at their school (out of necessity, else it would have been shut down) and was acquainted with many fellow students.

For all their differences, though, no one could say they were opposites. They shared the same level of passion, same haircolor, same love for thrillers and dislike for horrors. They had the same sense of humor, same love for music, same fluency with words and disadvantage with numbers. First and foremost was love for family, their tight unit preserved well because family was always important.

The day that changed everything started off innocently. They always did.

Christopher was thrust into her care with a plaid shirt, swin shorts, and wide grin. She couldn't argue with her sister. Hailey's orchestra was working intense hours in preparation for the broadway show opening in three nights and when her flake of an ex-husband bailed on picking up Christopher, she had no one else to turn to.

"I've never been on a boat before!" Her nephew said excitedly as he climbed over the ledge and nearly bounced around.

"Who's this?" Emma's boyfriend Nick questioned with an inquisitive smile.

"My nephew. I'm babysitting him for the day so our date is hijacked."

He laughed at her apologetic shrug and waved it off.

The Hudson river was busy that day. They were miles north of the city, the docks along the calm water accompanied by lush expansives of green. She should have said no to the way Nick pushed the small speedboat faster, especially with so many other boats around, but Christopher was loving it and he was laughing so hard and any reasoning for why she should tell him to slow down the watercraft strayed from her mind.

The thoughts didn't even occur.

When it happened, it happened fast. A water skier careened from the side of their own boat and Nick jerked the wheel fast; too fast.

The boat tipped, the white suds of water spray hitting their faces, and then Emma fell, striking the jutting side of something inside the boat hard. It knocked her jaw open and her ears felt like they'd been boxed and all she could do was scream for Christopher and try to reach for him through her splotched vision as she went through whiplash, banging against the floorboards once again when the boat swayed the other way.

They capsized before she could process what had happened, the water rushing into her ear canals feeling like being stabbed. The next ten minutes went by fast, too fast to process, and yet she felt stuck in slow-motion, helpless and frail and failing.

The silence was deafening as she pushed Christopher over in the water, lifting his face to the sky, trying to get him to breath again by shaking him and pleading with words she could only feel, not hear. The riverside was muddy and cool, warmer than the water but not by much, the ground she laid her young nephew on trapped under the shade of thick trees.

She pushed against his chest once, twice, three times. Emma was going to school to be a doctor. She cradled his neck, opened his mouth, and blew a long breath into his lungs. Emma was trained for this. She placed her hands on his chest again and pressed, pressed, pressed. She felt the small crack of a bone under her palms, a splinter in a rib. Emma knew that was to be expected. She breathed, again. Emma could save him.

So she pressed, again.

And again.

And again.

The paramedics announced him dead on the scene, sheet covering his small form as they moved him to a stretcher. Despite her screams and her kicks to return to his side, Nick held her fast and she had never felt more cold.

The slap on the cheek at the hospital only made her feel numb, tears falling without thought, mind blank with action. Hailey cried in front of her, alternatingly yelling and pleading silent words, and Emma tried to reach out, to hug her, to tell her again how sorry she was, how guilty she felt, how much she would do anything to make it better, but Hailey pushed her away and ran.

Their mother stood to the side, the same brand of heartbreak etched across her face. She was faced with a decision.

She ran after her now-childless daughter, as anyone else would.

Emma sank in a plastic chair, staring at the blood on her hands. It was her own, a trail she was wiping at that ran from her ear. She waved off the nurse that kept trying to help. The blood might as well as been her nephew's because it sank into her skin, haunting her.

She was not a doctor. She was not trained for it. She did not know what to expect. She could not save him.

* * *

 

 

**Boundaries** :: _noun; something that indicates a border or limit_

For six long years, Emma Coolidge served penance.

She had not realised she had let herself stop, let herself be distracted, let herself experience more than simple joys - until she stared at the broken pieces of the cello on her apartment floor, tears drying on her cheeks.

She liked Peter. He not only knew of her ability and helped her understand it better, but he was a nice and wholly good person as well. He had reacted to her deafness with nothing more than a nod, the knowledge only making him change his tactics in communication.

He took every save and loss of life personally, dedicated to the job because of the people and not the paycheck. She had wondered more than once how he was a paramedic, how he hadn't killed himself from the effort already. Everything had to be treated clinically in the medical field. Except, perhaps, occasionally in the nursing area. But even then - Peter Petrelli's heart bled for everyone.

He was dangerous for her to be around. Detachment kept her in her solitude, in her suffering, in her penance. Peter not only pushed past that, he made her want to leave it all behind.

As she stood to find a trashbag, Emma found herself thinking that he was also dangerous for her feelings, and she didn't know what to do about that.

 

* * *

 

 

**Calm** ::  _noun; an absence or cessation of motion_

The carnival was taken down in the middle of the night the day after Claire Bennet jumped and revealed her own ability for the whole world.

Emma had not seen the spectacle. Sitting at the back of an ambulance and having the unfamiliar paramedic slowly bandage her fingers, she stared around at the empty booths and bright lights and thought about how sad it was for a lively, promising place to be so co-opted. There were no smiling families, charismatc acts, awed eyes. There was only a quiet, as though someone dropped a blanket over the place, forcing them into a stilling calm.

"You're all set," the paramedic told her, tossing a bundle of gauze somewhere in the back of the ambulance and stepping to the side.

She thanked him and walked back to the center of the camp, hoping to find Peter. He said he would take her home. When she came around the bend of tents, she blinked at the swarm of media around a frazzled group of people - including Peter and his friend.

Brow furrowed, she moved forward.

For whatever reason, she was mostly ignored, and Emma was more than content with that. They were all talking too fast for her to make out the words falling from their lips but it was clear who they were focusing on - the young blonde woman with a dirty black coat.

It was several minutes before the remaining police pushed the overzealous reporters and camera people back and then Emma managed to make it closer. The blonde she had not yet been introduced to was being walked away by a man with horn-rimmed glasses and Peter. She didn't try to follow, turning to leave for a cab when someone tapped on her shoulder. It was Sylar. "Do you need a ride?" He looked sheepish, much more unsure than before.

She nodded.

 

* * *

 

 

**Dance** :: _verb; to move rhythmically, usually to music_

Emma took three days of sick leave, rendered almost completely useless from her injury. After that was the weekend. In those five days, she only texted Peter to tell him that she made it home and was fine. There were no reasons outside of the selfish for her to contact him and even if Sylar hadn't told her what happened, learning about the twenty-four hour news cycle's new obsession was unavoidable.

If he was still helping his niece - of course he was - then he had more than eough to deal with.

Instead, on Sunday night, she went to the Glendale Eleven theater. There was no show tonight but Emma remembered how it was. They would be there, practicing.

She was right.

The orchestra thrummed with efficiency, all parties in sync as the haunting and dramatically fast-paced melody filled the space between the buildings' walls. She took a seat in one of the back rows, watching the movements avidly. She could no longer hear it, but see she certainly did.

Yellow and purple were prominant, the colors strong and twisting outward in long patterns. She reached out slightly and could touch the remnants in the air around her, faded from the distance. No one else but her could see the way they reflected their light on the faces, stage, instruments. Spurts of blue and red were intermittent, accompanied by a jerk of a wrist or a singular beat from an otherwise unused instrument.

The waves filled the spaces between the people, as if they were dancing with it, purposefully creating it.

In a way, they were.

The 'show' ended abruptly and the group rose, instruments set aside and back in their places. Hailey came into view. She looked tired, chatting amicably with someone at her right. Her normally curly hair was cut in a bob pinned away from her face and her posture did not hint at all at a woman who had taken dance for five years. She looked so... different.

Emma stood aburptly and left. She wasn't very brave after all.

 

* * *

 

**Entonic**  ::  _medical term; having great tension_

_Peter: How are you?_

The screen flashed, alerting her to the text. It made her blink. She closed the file in front of her, standing to put it back in the cabinet and picking up her phone on the way.

_Emma: Fine. You?_

The response came less than a minute later. She smiled.

_Peter: Tired._

_Emma: How's Claire?_

_Peter: Also tired. Paps climbed 10ft fence for pics._

_Emma: Yikes._

She bit her lip.

_Emma: Where are you?_

* * *

 

The door opened with Peter grimacing at something over his shoulder and Emma immediately regretted bringing a bottle of wine. A movie was mostly mindless entertainment that could easily become background noise if he was in the middle of something. But wine? Awkward.

The loft was across town but the taxi fare had not been too painful for her wallet. Peter had said it was his new residence because of the attention his niece was getting and they didn't trust any bodyguards yet. A loft courtesy of the Petrelli matriarch was the next logical step.

Emma walked into the living room after being invited in, shrugging off her coat. She amended her regret when she saw the scene in front of her - she wished she had brought two bottles.

One for each of the scornful faces.

Sylar was in a chair, Claire in a loveseat, and if the tension had been gas, Emma was sure the place would have exploded by now. Peter, for all his expertise, appeared at her side with a slouch in his shoulders indicating just how lost he was in handling them. Movie night with a friend just turned into movie night with a group of friends-slash-enemies-slash-acquaintances, apparently.

"Hello," Emma ventured to say, deciding to break the ice.

It had just as chilling of an effect. Both pairs of eyes snapped to her and softened, embarassment tinging their smiles ever so slightly.

"I brought a movie."

Peter grinned at the distraction. "We have popcorn."

"I'll get it," Sylar volunteered quickly, moving smoothly into the kitchen.

Claire leaned up on her knees as the other blonde set her coat down and extracted the plastic case. "What is it?" She asked when Emma was looking at her again.

"The Breakfast Club. Oldie but goodie."

Claire shared her enthusiasm and started working with the DVD player for her. Emma looked behind to see Peter had left them for the kitchen as well.

"So. Sylar's staying here too?"

Emma spotted the rolled eyes even while the younger was turned partially away. "No. He's 'visiting'. A lot."

She sat on the couch, nodding slowly. "I... see." She really didn't.

Claire shook her head, resuming her own place, remote in hand. Her face quickly shifted into a grin, masking the feelings Emma was sure lay beneath. "So! You're Peter's friend, huh?"

She allowed the change in discussion, even though it left her wriggling in her seat ever so slightly.

* * *

 

**Faith** :: _noun; strong or unshakeable belief in something_

"You have a lot of faith in them," Emma commented two weeks later, chuckling into her water glass at the most recent Claire versus Sylar story Peter shared. She liked to consider herself friends with the other two even if Claire hated Sylar so intensely there was always a risidual line of tension in the room when they were nearby eachother. In truth, Peter was venting to her, but she didn't mind.

They were sitting in a corner booth of a shabby diner only a few blocks from her apartment. The digital clock on the wall shined 9:28 PM, her inner clock deceptively feeling as though it were midnight. There were faintly blue bags under Peters and she guessed it probably felt like five in the morning to him.

He shrugged at her words, fingers toying with the handle of his coffee cup, not quite grasping at it. "I know Sylar's change is real and I know why Claire's angry. It'll take time like it did with us. She can't kill him," he said, smiling wryly as an afterthought.

Emma did not fully understand what Peter and Sylar had told her about their story but she understood enough to know it was extremely complex and the only part that truly mattered was the present, with Sylar's repentance and Peter's forgiveness.

And Claire's fury.

Emma shook her head, picking up a fry from her plate. "People are open," she stated, more to herself.

He paused at the abrupt shift in conversation. "So far. My mother always said they would never let us live without persecution. I don't know. I don't want to be naive but I have hope. Nothing terrible's happened and people are wary but there's an understanding there too, you know?"

"It's not naive," she rushed to assure. The smile that bloomed on his face made her blush, lowering her eyes.

* * *

 

The tenuous foundation Claire and the others Emma doesn't know is tested barely three months after. For all her newfound revelations about abilities, she does not follow the activities in the news with a hawkish eye. Her ability is a passive, pleasurable one that is still new to her and maybe it is idiotic, perhaps it is ignorant, but she doesn't feel 'Special'.

It is not all about her, either. The world debating how to handle people that can fly, light things on fire, heal? Normal no longer exists.

Except that it does.

People continue to go to school, work, get coffee, exchange numbers for dates, buy clothes, furniture, live vicariously through fiction, injure themselves from acts of ill-judgement or just plain insanity. Human nature maintains the balance and the sun continues to rise and set and nothing could feel more surreal.

So, when a charity is bombed because of its ties to people with abilities, Emma snaps to attention with the rest of the world.

She and the other milling staff on the first floor crowd around the reception's TV to watch the news cast as a team of bomb experts enter the building; then a disarming robot is brought out. A spokesperson holds a conference to say that the fuse failed, people are safe, persons of interest are being follwed up on. Danger was avoided because of one small mistake but the magnitude of the event does not abate.

She stays with them until the 'breaking news' cycle repeats for the fourth time before leaving the crowd and returning to her room. She doesn't go back to work, instead closing her door and doing the one thing that niggled on her mind for the past few hours.

_Emma: What does this mean?_

He responds quickly, again.

_Peter: Are you watching?_

_Emma: Was._

_Peter: Watch. Claire's on._

She texts as she walks.

_Emma: Are you there?_

_Peter: No._

_Peter: With Sylar, behind the scenes._

She isn't sure, but she thinks that the last part would have been said with a smirk if he were in front of her. There are only a few stragglers still in front of the screen but she focuses on the young blonde with pursed lips and sympathetic, hurt eyes standing poised in a speech, asking for equality.

Emma watches until her feet are sore, long into the commentator panels that come after Claire steps away and bids farewell remarks and the camera pans back to the news studio. The green-eyed girl's words rang true and as Emma sees the supporters fall in place firmly, finally, she thinks that maybe she has some faith too.

* * *

 

**Gag** ::  _verb; to retch or choke_

The six month cycle has come around and for Emma it's been a very nerve-wracking but tentatively maybe-good day. With encouragement in the form of Peter smiling or her mother nodding whenever she turned around, Emma reapplied for medical school, again - and this time, she applied to more than one.

She had to be realistic. She could do this. She would go back to school. She would become a doctor. It would be like jumping into a cold pool, but she could do it.

She had just uncorked the bottle of wine when the light above her doorway flashed, alerting her to a visitor. Her thoughts immediately went to Peter. She had told him she would try sending out the letters today, see if she could do it. He had asked if she wanted him there. She said no - it was something she had to do herself.

Emma forewent the eyehole and opened the door, finding a surprising face on the other side.

"Claire?"

The woman peeked out from under the baseball cap and hoodie, grinning self-consciously. "Hey. I, uh, I kinda need a girl's night and I couldn't think of anyone else. I should've called first - or texted. Texted would've been good. You're not busy, are you?"

Emma took a deep breath at the rambling, catching every other word. She smiled. "No, it's okay, come in. What's that," she asked when she saw the brown bag in her hands.

Claire set in on the kitchen table after Emma closed the door. "Drinks. Do you mind?"

She watched as several bottles of various filled states were put on the counter top, not quite sure what to say. Beer, whiskey, tequila, vodka, gin, rum, a couple sugar syrup mixes, liqueurs. Was Claire even 21? "Where did you get all of this?" She asked instead.

"Petrelli cabinets. I swear my birth family ran on alcohol."

She didn't let her amusement keep her from protesting when Claire pulled out two shot glasses and lined them up. "Claire, this isn't healthy. You're going to get really sick and be very hungover tomorrow. Trust me, it is not worth it."

Claire's face tempered a bit when she held out the shot of tequila. "I can't really get drunk. My ability keeps my liver clean. But, I do have a theory that if I drink enough in one hour my ability won't be able to metabolize all of this in time for the buzz to kick in and I really want to try that out. Please?"

Emma frowned. There had to be a catalyst for the behavior. There always was. "What happened?"

The woman titled her head, looking younger than her maturity suggested. "My girlfriend broke up with me."

Well. She picked up her wine glass, silent permission. "I'm sorry."

Claire slammed back the before-offered shot, face scrunching up at the taste and throat burn that Emma was not envious of at all. "Join the club," she said lightly, already reaching for the second shot.

* * *

 

It was three in the morning when she texted Peter to come fetch Claire. She had no problem with the girl sleeping over but it would be easier to scurry her out away from prodding eyes in the dead of night. Emma grimaced at the series of empty alcohol bottles strewn between her kitchen, couch, and coffee table. She recycled all of her trash - it was easier as it meant less frequent trips to the dump, her being just one person. However, the knowing and disapproving eye of her neighbor in apartment 3 made her less than eager to bag it all up in one obvious dispaly.

The vodka in combination with the liqueurs turned out to do the trick, giving Claire not only a buzz but added a decided slur to her words and laziness to her movements. It finally happened between eleven and midnight.

What neither of them had expected was that the sugar concoction would make her vomit.

Emma had turned her back for one second and Claire, telling some story about her hand and a disposal and a dog named Mr Muggles, had accidentally poured the sugar-only mix into a shot glass and tipped it back. She swallowed it with a disgusted look. Emma immediately returned to her side and asked what was wrong. The worry lasted barely two minutes before Claire was up and bolting for the bathroom.

Sighing, Emma had rested on her bathtub edge and held the girl's hair. It was the least she could do.

If Claire were a normal girl with normal experiences and normal limitations, she would have started crying after and bemoaned her regret over the situation before falling into a slump. Emma knew because she had been there enough times with friends to know the pattern.

However, Claire wasn't, and when she finally stumbled back to the couch she laughed heartily and long, a series of hysterics that lasted all through Emma grabbing a glass of water and toasted bread for her. Claire thanked her for the 'fun night'. When she fell asleep around one, she seemed completely sobered up and more emotionally tired than anything else.

Emma pulled the blanket up over her shoulders from where it had started to slide when the woman turned over against the back of the couch in her sleep.

The light blinked. Peter was here.

He smiled apologetically in the doorway and she signed, _"It's okay. We had fun."_

He raised an eyebrow. _"Really?"_

She shrugged her shoulders and nodded with a smile of her own.

* * *

 

**Haven**  ::  _noun; a place of refuge or rest_

The night cemented Emma and Claire's friendship, despite the friendship Emma also held with Sylar. The younger blonde seemed to understand that Emma wouldn't gossip behind her back and also couldn't possibly harbor the same feelings towards the man that saved her as Claire did, but neither did she see him as a perfect person either. In the end he was a topic hardly discussed when they were alone and Emma actually found herself quite glad for that.

Claire returned to school in September to finish her second semester, the previous year having completely interrupted her schooling. Arlington University was very understanding.

Emma went with her and Peter to the campus, using vacation days for that trip. They hugged her and passed her off to where her parents stood - one of them the man she had seen all those months before, with the glasses - and then Emma was walking through the busy halls of her old university, shaking her head at how everything had changed and somehow managed to stay the same.

Peter bumped her shoulder with his and smiled at her reaction. She blushed and he grinned, putting his arm over her shoulders, and she let him, sinking into half-embrace. It was nice and warm and she almost felt cold when he had to pull away as they sat down across from campus at a coffee shop but then he reached over and took hold of her hand gently.

"What are you doing?" She questioned with a laugh as he brought out a blue marker she recognized from the ordering counter. "Did you steal that, Peter?"

He shushed her jokingly and carefully drew the university's logo. "Now everyone will know you're a proud alumni."

Emma rolled her eyes at him but didn't pull her hand back and neither did he. They sat there for almost an hour, just talking, and his ever-active fingers teased over hers after a short time. The smile was impossible to wipe off her face and she felt pure, unadulterated happiness when his eyes sparked after she teased back.

* * *

 

**Instinct**  ::  _noun; an innate capability or aptitude_

Movie night becomes a reglar thing. Emma, still waiting on a response from medical school, sheds her self-conscious earbuds. Peter, having resumed his paramedic position, sheds the uniform. Claire sheds the charmingly fake smile when she leaves the camera. Sylar sheds the new Specials-oriented company's required suit. They meet in front of the loft's TV in comfy laundry-day clothes and despite the underlying tension that is ever present because of a certain two, the setting is much more relaxed than the rest of their respective weeks.

Tonight is a sci-fi Peter picked out, the choice his turn. Emma feels just a bit too tired to be able to focus on the plot enough for full understanding and she stops attempting even pretending an hour in, sinking against Peter's side, pulling her feet up on the couch.

He tightens his arm around her and lays a kiss on the crown of her head.

The lights and shapes start to blur in front of her until she jerks awake, disoriented, finding everything around her dark and empty. She sits up to discover she had stretched out on the couch, a blanket curling its way around her legs. The city buzzes beyond the large double-paned windows, lights flashing up occassionally. She rubbed at her eyes, wishing she had been woken up. The couch was comfortable. But....

She wasn't sure. Maybe it was part of waking up alone. That could not be it, though - she never had a problem with it before.

Emma stood and crept to the kitchen to check the time, not wanting to wake anyone. All the doors down the hallway were cracked and seeing that made her worry that every soft pad of feet likely sounded possibly loud. Would they wake up and remember she was here? Would they not? That would be painfully awkward.

The night light in the kitchen silhouetted two figures and she nearly stumbled as she backtracked around the corner. Frowning curiously, unable to help herself, she spied.

It was Claire and Sylar. The girl was leaning against the counter looking annoyed, him reaching out a hand. It was one of the only times where Claire didn't flinch and pull away from his physical contact. It was a decidedly intimate moment, Emma could tell, but she could not understand it. Sylar moved closer and Claire then put her hand up, stopping him with a foot's distance between. They stayed like that until the stove clock blinked and then she deadpanned something. He tensed but didn't move.

Emma did, though, lenaing against the wall feeling uncomfortably like a peeping Tom even though there was nothing lewd about it. Her gut instincts pushed her away and she let them, wondering only briefly is she should hide from an oncoming explosion because of the other two or not.

She found herself too awake now to go back to slumber, yet going home was out of the question. It was past midnight in New York City, a dangerous cocktail. Her internal debate shifted and became about where to sleep. If she lied back down on the couch, she would known when the two in the kitchen walked past and more peeping she did not need to do.

If Peter asked, she decided to tell him it was because she was tired and out of it. Emma slid into his room cautiously. He was passed out to the world. Stress lines on his face smoothed out, mouth tipped open, he looked impossibly at peace.

She managed not to distrub him as she laid down and so she turned over, watching the rise of his chest until her eyelids felt heavy. She had forgotten how comforting it could be to have someone simply be next to you.

* * *

 

Emma woke on her own once again, finding the bed empty. He was probably an early riser. He wasn't uncomfortable with what she had done, was he? She rolled over and buried her head in a pillow, groaning a bit when she only came back with the smell of his cologne.

Managing to work herself up inwardly, she was confused at the scene before her when she padded out.

Sylar was at a waffle iron, lifting the lid to pry some new ones off the supposedly non-stick surface. Peter was cutting fruit and putting it in a bowl, shaking his head ammusedly at something. She guessed it had to do with how Claire, sitting on the coutner top with a coffe mug in hand and feet moving to their own beat, seemed to be admonishing Sylar on his incorrect waffle retrieval ways.

"Hey."

They all smiled at her for a brief moment before Sylar began to grab for the batter and Claire got to it first, pouring ot herself. It overflowed only slightly. Peter set the fruit on the table and gestured to it, grabbing two mugs.

She took a seat and accepted the coffee happily, all worries dissipating at how his eyes danced with merriment. "I like waffles," she said randomly, innately knowing that something in their dynamic had shifted and Peter was as at ease with it as she was.

"They're the best breakfast," he replied equally as oddly. It wasn't a beat before they both started chuckling for no real reason at all. Emma knew she was falling in love with this little group of theirs - maybe even with one in particular - and she didn't bother trying to stop herself.

* * *

 

**Jock**  ::  _noun; an athlete and/or athletic supporter_

The day was a lazy Saturday.

Breakfast was full of mindless talk before Claire went to work memorizing a speech at the desk in the corner, curled up in the chair. Sylar cleaned, somehow getting on her nerves, and only stopped after she snapped at him.

Emma and Peter managed to tune both of them out, reading from their collective books. Somehow her legs had ended up over the side of the loveseat and Peter had moved his arms around her from behind and eventually their books were rested side by side as they laid sprawled out, but it didn't bother either of them.

Noon rolled around when she noticed Sylar re-emerge from what she assumed was his room and, sensing his boredom, she proposed a card game. Peter saw her look and supported the idea, even though he was pretty sure they didn't have any cards. It didn't matter because Sylar managed to produce a deck in less than a minute and so they ended up playing _Texas hold 'em_ on the living room floor when Claire moseyed over. She taught them the rules, saying she knew them from her mom.

Claire being the dealer obviously wasn't her first wish. Peter, saying he just couldn't fully get the rules, swapped places with her and she all but jumped where she sat from excitement. Emma grinned, catching Peter's eye. He winked at her.

They played somewhere around a dozen games, Claire winning at least seven of them, before taking a break and splitting up again. Sylar went back to his room, Peter went to the bathroom, and Claire went for a snack. It didn't necessarily give her a free pass to explore, but she did so anyway.

On a whim, Emma walked back into Peter's room, taking a closer look at the one picture frame she had noticed when she woke up. The rest of the room was pretty bare, which she was starting to understand was a Peter thing in general.

She picked up the simple metal frame. Inside was a slightly blurry picture with a time stamp circa 1993. There were two men, what looked like a very young Peter in a half-hug with an older but still young man, the similar features unmistakable. The older man had a baseball uniform on, the red matching the melting popsicle stick in Peter's hand. It was adorable.

A hand on her shoulder startled her. Turning around halfway, she saw it was Peter and quickly apologized. He shook his head, smiling sadly at the photo. "My brother," he told her.

Emma handed the frame over, feeling embarassed. "It looks like a good memory."

"It was. Nathan loved baseball but he only played it a couple of years, minor leagues. He'd always buy me these cherry popsicles after a big win. He'd say if I cheered really loud it would help." He smirked fondly. "So naturally I couldn't sit in the bleachers next to everyone else. A man with a hearing aid even complained once."

She smiled. "Sounds like you should've been the mascot."

"I wish." Peter set the frame down on the dresser before putting his hands in his pockets. He was silent, stuck in his thoughts, eyes lingering on the picture. She didn't hesitate to step over and wrap her arms around him. He hugged back almost immediately. Emma just stood there, offering the comfort she could.

* * *

 

**Kraft**  ::  _noun; paper processed from wood pulp, used chiefly for bags and as wrapping paper_

The day she gets a response, there are three letters.

Emma moves them to the corner of her desk after staring at them for ten minutes and managing to stop herself just barely from hyperventilating. She remembers her excitement last time, the happiness, the anticipation. And then it had been snuffed out in less than two paragraphs printed on an innocent piece of paper.

She procrastinated.

Activity was not any higher or any lower than normal in the hospital and she always had something she could do. She put the headphones with a cord to nowhere in her ears and she moved files, checked paperwork, opened work mail, all of the usual. Her mother brought her coffee and asked about any response. Emma lied, saying she had none yet.

It panged her heart to see how the disappointment - on her behalf - flittered over her mother's face but if she said she had them and had not opened them? Her mother would insist to do so for her, to which she would say no. And thus and argument would ensue. She didn't want that.

So she took her break early and sat in the empty room with the piano, envelopes in her lap, fingertips ghosting over the keys without any intent. Occasionally one fell heavy, ellicting a wave of color that made her smile.

A body dropped down next to her, one she recognized out of the corner of her eye before she even had to look over. Peter. His emergency go-to pack was slung across his chest for whatever reason and he looked slightly disheveled. It was normal for when he worked. "Hey."

"Hey."

He looked at the keys, pushing his hair back where it tried to flop over on his forehead, bangs growing too long. "Playing?"

She shook her head, reaching down to pick up the letters. "I am trying to decide which to open first."

Peter met her eyes before lowering them to the paper and pointing at the label of the one in the middle. "Starts with an A," he offered up simplistically and she almost wanted to kiss him for finding a logical answer and not telling her to open them up already like her mother would have done.

Emma took a deep breath before ripping it open, fingers stilling on the paper before she pulled it out. And if it was a rejection letter, then what? Would she be able to open the others? What if they were all rejection letters? She couldn't go through that sucker-punch three times.

She set it down and opened the other two, pulling all of the paper out and fanning it on the keys. Peter said nothing as she did this, only reaching down to catch one of the envelopes where it had fallen. Telling herself to stay calm didn't work when she tried in vain to skim the words carefully without becoming affected, without reacting - and without breathing, accidentally.

_Accepted._

She couldn't process anything else, reading the word and then the sentence and then the paragraph over again, doing a double and then triple take.

_We congratulate you on the acceptance of your application regarding admission to the medical section of Boston University's School of Medicine._

She got in.

Peter said something next to her but she didn't look over, only taking a wheezing breath as she read it again.

Emma did not notice what Peter was doing until she felt the brown paper bag over her mouth and she took it from his grip willingly but did not moving it away, raising her eyes from the words as she tried to re-regulate her breathing. Her chest hurt and her head spun but she only grinned and laughed, clutching at the letter for dear life.

* * *

 

  
**Lover** :: _noun; a person who has a sexual and/or romantic relationship with another_

The school was in Boston, two hundred miles and three hours away if you were lucky with traffic. Luck, though, wasn't the most necessary component when you could fly, as Peter pointed out.

They made it work.

She started the semester after the holidays, some of her previous credits still salvageable, saving her from going through being a green freshman again. The permanent shift in their relationship began because of harmless mistetoe hung over a kitchen doorway and was cemented when he helped her move into her new apartment.

After two hours of moving furniture and another hour after that of eating greasy takeout and drinking cheap wine, Emma met him halfway on the couch as she thought that she might have fallen in love with Peter Petrelli without realizing it.

His lips were always chapped and they seemed more so that night. She mussed his hair as he cradled her close, running his fingers down her spine. It wasn't rushed, nor planned. He blushed when she took her time admiring his chest and she laughed when her jeans got stuck at her ankles, Peter working more gently than she would have to remove them properly.

She whispered those three little words without meaning to as they cuddled and he replied sincerely without thought. It made her bite her lip as she tucked her head below his chin, a glow on her flushed skin.

A rumbling from under her hands made her prop her head back up as he repeated his words with a grin. "We didn't think the flying part through."

Her synthesia. She had completely forgotten; all they had been doing for the last hour was touching. Emma laughed, covering up her sudden blush as she burrowed back against him and he helped by tangling their legs, moving their bodies impossibly closer. It felt better than any dream she ever had.

* * *

  
  
  
**Maybe** :: _noun; a possibility or uncertainty_

The next few years passed in a wonderful blur. The hesitancy that hung over the world regarding people like her - like them - faded more and more with each passing day. The human race coped, as it always had before, adjusting and adapting to the new reality. Problems still arose from week to week and so too did an underlying hatred in some form because one person's DNA dared be different from another's, but such were the harsh realities of life. People with abilities slowly adapted to the new normal as well.

To live with peaceful intentions was the best course.

Peter switched hospitals not too long into Emma's move, joining her in Boston. She didn't ask him - he wanted to.

For a time it seemed everyone was moving around as Sylar took over Peter's old apartment as his own and Claire left the part-time loft for a room at Angela Petrelli's own apartment when traveling became a more regular occurence. Everything was in a course of motion, including Emma's cat, Winston. She hadn't noticed how often he crept under the sofa, attributing the slight fall off of affection from the feline to Peter's new presence.

Somewhat ironically, it was Peter that discovered the situation.

Winston had brought home a stray.

The other cat was no older than two, with a white and orange coat and gray eyes, and it was the most skittish animal Emma had ever encountered. She still had no idea when and how often Winston managed to sneak out of the apartment, yet it was enough for the cat to only trust his judgement and almost exclusively use him as a shield from her and Peter.

Peter, the beautiful soul he was, thought it was adorable.

"It could be sick," she pointed out.

He nodded and continued filling up a bowl of milk.

"We have to take it to the vet," she persisted, starting to rattle off the list of requirements that came to mind. "And then we have to get it a bed and its own dishes and name it."

Setting the bowl down, he then looked at her. "Do you want to keep it?"

Emma's lips quirked at the way Winston skipped over to the bowl and the new cat followed it with wary eyes fastened on them, brushing up against Winston as it stuck its little tongue out. "...Yeah."

He put an arm around her waist. "Then we'll see how she does."

"It's a she?"

Peter nodded. "And she has the hots for Winston," he said cheekily, earning a smack on the shoulder even as Emma smiled wide.

* * *

 

**Notice** :: _verb; to mention or refer to_

When she makes a surprise visit to her mother during summer break, the act alone doesn't go unnoticed. "You haven't done something like this in years."

"Take my mother to lunch?" Emma asked with a doubtful expression.

"No - ambush me with a smile and drag me off to lunch. Not that I'm complaining."

Her mood leveled out at the words and she promptly changed the subject. She had missed her mother, noting that the lines in the woman's face were a bit deeper than she remembered, her gray hair a couple of strands lighter. Her mother was incredibly interested in how medical school was going, pleased to hear that Emma would be graduating in the Spring but disappointed that she had to re-do most of her education. Emma reminded her, with some frustration leaking into her voice, that there's a difference between dropping out and putting your schooling on hold.

"But you didn't have to drop out."

"Yes I did," she replied in a clipped fashion, using her fork to push around a few luke-warm vegetables left on her plate. With her eyes down on the utensil, she could avoid looking at her mother and thus avoid listening to her. Unfortunately, her mother had learned this tactic by now.

Reaching out, her mother took hold of Emma's hand and stilled her, making Emma look up. "You need to see your sister, Emma."

That was a low blow. She swallowed heavily. "I can't force her to see me. She hates me and she has a good reason to. I'm not just going to show up in front of her and remind her of everything bad she's tried to forget."

Her mother's eyes teared up. "Please, Emma. You two were so close. If you just go to her-"

"I said no."

Leaning back to dab her eyes, the other said sadly, "Hailey's remarrying and moving to Texas at the end of the year."

Blinking wide, Emma rolled the bombshell over in her head, trying to process it. She was glad her sister was able to recover, to continue living. However - to move? Away from their home state, their mother? But maybe that was what she needed - a sort of clean slate, much like the one Emma had in Boston, with Peter. A chance to recover without the looming guilt.

"I can't," she told her mother softly and tried not to let the mirroring heartache on the older woman's face influence her any differently. "I've ruined her life enough, Mom. I can't do that again."

It was what made her turn back every time over the past nine years that she convinced herself she could walk those extra steps, say those practice words, stand those eyes on her face once again.

Emma took several gulps from her water glass, pretending that she was suddenly dehydrated, and her mother let her.

* * *

 

The first time Emma saw Sylar collapse within himself was three and a half years after their initial meeting and only a week after her unsettling meeting with her mother.

He was sitting at her kitchen table, the new cat they named Daisy cradled in his arms and likely purring if she could accurately judge by the way its back was arched and eyelids slid closed. She slowly closed the door behind her, setting her purse and jacket on their designated hooks before venturing into the kitchen and setting down the grocery bags in her arms. Frankly, she did not want to know how he had gotten in. Some things were best left unknown.

Peter was in California after an urgent call from his mother, who was there with Claire. He was only supposed to be gone for the weekend. Emma wondered if Sylar knew this, if he had decided to wait here instead of go there.

She wanted to ask a hundred questions of the man slumped in the chair, eyes following her feet instead of her form; however, she did not. He looked like he would crumble under the pressure. It was an unnerving difference from how she mostly saw him and especially from the man who had saved her a couple years earlier in what felt like a distant dream.

"If you're staying the night, you have to help make dinner," she commented lightly, pulling out a can of beans from the bags.

He joined her at the counter not too longer afterwards, dutifully following all of her orders.

She attempted conversation twice during dinner and both times it failed, with Sylar making noncommittal motions with his head. He washed the dishes, her drying and putting them away. He pulled out the sofa bed in the small office and put on the sheets she handed him without complaint. She showed him where the extra toothbrushes were and, at ten, said goodnight as she passed the half-open doorway, only finding him lying down already in the dark, form straight as a board.

It was hard to say what the most unsettling part was, near the top the fact that not once he had used any of his abilities. Emma could not say he relied upon them but he did always seem to favor the telekinesis. To have it completely absent was strange.

As she turned out her own light, she almost immediately unlocked her phone. She hadn't wanted to blatantly text Peter in front of Sylar even if he was all but in a catatonic state.

_Emma: Sylar's here. There is something wrong with him. Text me back when you can. Love you._

* * *

The time difference worked against them and it was after nine in the morning that Emma received a text back, startled by the flashing screen from where she was sipping coffee and studying a chapter in one of her required texts. Sylar hadn't said anything this morning, either, and the silence almost made her forget that someone else was breathing the same air as her.

She looked up but Sylar was not in the office, probably still at the kitchen table if she had to guess. He had made coffee and then resumed his post there, purpose still unknown. The sheets were folded neatly on the closed sofa. Emma sighed and picked up her mobile.

_Peter: Sorry I didn't see this before._

_Peter: He won't pick up his phone._

_Peter: Is he still there?_

Emma wondered if he had his cellphone in his coat. She wouldn't know if it was ringing or not, unfortunately not a help in that aspect. Her worry bubbled up from where she had surpressed it and she almost gave into the urge to bite her fingernails.

_Emma: Yeah. He took care of himself last night but he isn't doing anything._

_Emma: He's just sitting._

_Peter: Is he talking?_

_Emma: No._

_Emma: But he likes Daisy._

_Peter: I can't leave til tomorrow. Are you OK?_

_Emma: I'm fine._

_Emma: It's like having the house to myself._

_Peter: I'll try to be quick. I'm sorry._

Just like him to always apologize, she thought.

_Emma: He'll talk when he wants to._

_Peter: I have to go._

_Peter: Text me with everything._

_Peter: I love you._

_Emma: Love you too. Bye._

She set the phone back down and scrubbed a hand through her flat hair. She abandoned trying to refocus and stood, making her way to the kitchen to make breakfast. Sylar could drop in without warning but he would be in for a surprise if he expected her to ignore him. She would force him to help her if it was the last thing she did.

* * *

  
**Observandum** ::  _noun; a thing to be observed_

Peter returned Sunday evening instead of Monday morning. Nothing had changed. Emma was surprised, however, to see Claire walk into the apartment with him. Of course, only the mildest of concern was on her face, but Emma expected nothing more.

Peter went right to Sylar and Emma left the kitchen to them. Claire was attempting to befriend Daisy with only marginal success. The cat curled up in the blonde's discarded coat but ignored all the coos and pettings. Claire gave up after a couple minutes, rocking back on her heels from where she was kneeling.

"What's wrong?" She asked and Emma only raised an eyebrow. Was she talking about Daisy? "Sylar just showed up?"

Emma gave her a helpless expression. "Sitting in the kitchen. Hasn't said anything." She glanced over her shoulder. "Do you know if they're talking?"

Claire nodded. "Can't make it out."

The older blonde nodded. It was the best they would have right now. She left to grab her medical text, deciding to study aimlessly while she had nothing else better to do. All they could do was wait, after all. Claire was propped up next to Daisy and her coat, staring into the kitchen as though involving her vision may also increase her hearing.

Emma left her to her observations and tried to do something productive, all the while keeping a firm hold on her deep concern.

* * *

  
**Palm**  ::  _noun; the inner surface of the hand that extends from the wrist to the bases of the fingers_

"He touched someone?" Emma asked dubiously as she brushed her hair. Sylar was two rooms down, on the pull-out couch again, staying until tomorrow. Claire had left after Peter made it clear it wasn't anything she would get an answer about. He had shut her down when she started insinuating Sylar resuming his past career of sorts, only giving her a vague assurance. Emma hadn't been sure he would tell her anything more.

Peter rinsed the toothpaste from his mouth, nodding. "He has an ability that lets him see memories. He shook the person's hand and he saw his dead mom."

She lowered her hands to the countertop. "What?"

He repeated it, lips curved in a confused frown.

"I don't understand. Is it before she's dead or after she's supposed to be?"

"Before." Peter replaced his toothbrush and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "I'm sorry but it's his story to tell. It's just - she's a sensitive topic."

Emma shook her head. "It's okay."

He brushed past her to the bedroom and she kept standing there for another minute, feeling intense pity and sadness for Sylar. He was by far the most complicated person she had ever met. She wanted to do something for him but nothing sounded appropriate. She shut off the bathroom light and whispered another goodnight to Sylar, hoping continuing on like normal did something to help.

* * *

  
**Quaff** ::  _verb; to drink copiously and heartily_

By the time of Emma's graduation, Sylar was acting in the same manner she was familiar with and Emma accepted it with slight trepidation. On one hand, she was still worried about how he was truly doing, a small part of her hurt that he didn't think he could tell her as well. On the other hand, she was glad he was coming back to his old self and not letting the incident weigh him down.

Claire was much more vocal with her questions when Sylar wasn't around, saying everything that Emma was worrying - except the part about being a serial killer. However, since Claire wasn't in Sylar's confidence either, her arguments were one-sided and eventually had to be dropped.

During the holidays, Peter had offered Sylar to join them but as Angela Petrelli was involved, he declined. Emma had never felt more uncomfortable in her life. The woman held her under constant scrutiny. Sure it was not said outright near as much as Claire did with her own thoughts but it was always there, lurking in the stares and fleeting emotions that peeked out from behind the ever-present mask. It was suspicious that she thought she had to wear it even around her son and granddaughter.

Not that Emma could say that to anyone.... Okay, she told Claire. The younger blonde snorted and promptly agreed.

The end of the year brought with it the reminder that Hailey was now wearing a new ring on her finger, hopefully happy with a better man, and was living ten or so states away, where Emma might not see her ever again.

Needless to say, graduation was the highlight of the following months. Blushing furiously when she received her diploma, she shyly smiled at Peter when he hooted in the crowd. He was such an idiot but the adorable part made up for it. When the ceremony was over he swept her up in his arms before she had a chance to properly breathe and she laughed in surprise, kissing him.

They would be seeing Sylar and Claire tomorrow, purposefully keeping the night to themselves as they drank themselves into a stupor and talked about plans of the future, the initial serious and promising and the many after becoming more ridiculous as the hours wore on. They stumbled to the bed, sheets forgotten, and the hangovers the next day were not regretted in the slightest.

* * *

  
**Recompose** ::  _to restore to composure or calmness_

When Emma walked into a hospital as an employee for the first time in four years, pride almost burst from her chest. Her supervising physician didn't hold back on the pace of introduction, though, and by the end of the day her mind was cloudy and her ankles were sore but the protestations did not affect her pride at all.

She walked into her apartment chatting, not noticing the unusual quiet as she struggled out of her jacket and hung up her bag, bypassing the living room for several minutes as she detoured for a water bottle. She was just twisting the cap back onto the small plastic container when she saw person sitting next to an expectant Peter.

The bottle fell from her grip, water dripping out of the cracked edge.

"Hailey."

Peter jumped into action, picking it up and presumably going to get a towel. She didn't know, nor did she focus on it at all.

Her sister was here, in her living room, not trying to attack her. She appeared so... changed. Not badly, Emma decided. She was mature. Emma supposed they both were. The short hair had stayed, curls turned wavy from the lack of length. It curled around her heart-shaped face, eyes looking bigger than usual.

"Emma."

Her own eyes pricked with the beginnings of moisture, shock wearing off, and she sniffed. "Hailey, I'm so sorry, you have to know that, I didn-"

"I know. I'm sorry too," she choked out, regret etched upon every feature. Emma had hardly any warning before Hailey stood and pulled her into a hug, still talking, words turned into mere vibrations upon her skin. Emma barely had time to notice the beginnings of a portruding belly before she clung back, apologizing over and over again, tears running down her cheeks.

This time it was Peter that gave them space, hanging near the back of the room as the two sisters talked. Several times Hailey forgot about Emma's deafness and lowered her head, only to lift it a minute later and see Emma had no idea what she had said, too embarassed to remind her. It was during those times that neither of them spoke for several minutes, the sadness almost overwhelming them both.

Nearly a decade of sisterhood lost because of a fatal mistake.

"Have you picked out a name?" Emma asked uncertaintly as she wiped at her eye.

Hailey shook her head. "We don't know what the sex is. We want to be surprised, you know."

Her lips quirked. "That's a good idea."

Reaching across the small space that felt so wide, her sister grasped Emma's hand and placed it slowly on her belly. "I forgive you, Emma."

Her throat tightened until she felt the kick. She couldn't hold back the sob.

* * *

 

**Savor** ::  _verb; to give oneself to the enjoyment of_

It was an abnormally cool June day when Peter sprung a trip to the museum on Emma. She had thought he was joking at first until he showed her the tickets. It was part of a private function hosted by the union he worked for. She in turn was able to surprise him by dressing up according to the formal attire recommendation. It was only a simple blue dress in her eyes but he kissed her passionately and gave her more than enough compliments to make her blush.

"You should wear suits more often," she teased back, adjusting his tie, and he grinned.

It was a small museum that was nonetheless beautiful with its mixture of classical and modern. He introduced her to a few people before scurrying her off to look at everything. She entwined her fingers with his as they leisurely made their way through the rooms. Emma rested against his side as they stared at one particularly beautiful oil painting of a woman half-hidden by the shadows, dancing just out of the way of the rose bushes to her side.

There were a thousand interpretations to be made but Emma only saw herself from years earlier. She brushed her lips against Peter's impulsively.

She had a good career, a man she loves, her sister, her mother, wonderful friends - she has a life worth living now and she doesn't want to ever give that up again.

"Come on," Peter said, pulling her along to another room. She almost rolled her eyes at him until she saw what he was trying to show her. A piano. He sat at it and she immediately opened her mouth to question the legality of it but he assured her it was free for use.

She smiled and slid down next to him. Pressing her fingertips lightly to the keys, she remembered their first meeting. Emma looked over and could see Peter was too. The space in front of them lit with awe-inspiring sways of color that she lost herself in until she looked down to find a small velvet box lying atop the piano.

Her heart skipped a beat at the same time her fingers abruptly stopped playing. Emma chanced looking back to Peter but he only held love for her and it melted her heart as it did every time.

Inside the box was a beautiful silver band with an oval shaped diamond in an inset of what looked like black diamonds but she wasn't an expert. All she knew was that it was the most beautiful ring she had ever seen and as Peter waited with anticipation and a little fear at the ridiculous possibility of the two letter word, she saw her whole life laid out for her and her heart practiced leaped with yearning.

"Yes."

* * *

  
**Tinted** ::  _noun; a barely detectable amount or degree_

They're married at the end of August, neither caring for a large affair.

Angela tried several times to talk Emma into it, into making it a Petrelli shindig for popularity. Emma had no problem declining the offer until they were married, when she wouldn't have to hear about it ever again. Peter, however, in one of their dinners a month before the ceremony, firmly told Angela off, complete with a walkout that Emma was forced to join him in.

She intially chastised him for it but when Angela RSVP'd to their set date, she kissed him lightly and thanked him. He just looked relieved.

Outside of their closest friends and family, they also invited a few workplace friends. In total they had less than fifty guests and they couldn't have been more pleased with that. The smaller, more intimate the ceremony, the better.

Claire went dress shopping with her and while the celebrity persona around Claire made her somewhat uncomfortable, it got her the best customer service she ever had and that wasn't something to complain about. Claire still gaped at the dress as though she had never seen it before. "I would hug you but I don't want to mess anything up."

"Thank you, Claire," she said sincerely.

"Ready?"

* * *

She was still in her wedding dress when they laid in bed that night. Their left hands were twined together, rings shining in the small amount of ambient light. She looked up in time to see Peter say, "Mrs. Emma Petrelli."

Leaning up to kiss him, she grinned. "I have to say something."

"Yeah?" He moved a hand to her hair, running his fingers through it.

"I don't feel any different," she whispered as he nuzzled her jaw.

Peter leaned back as he spoke. "Is that a good or bad thing?"

"Good. I love you, Peter Petrelli."

He murmured the words back to her against her lips.

* * *

  
**Urge**  ::  _verb; to advocate earnestly the doing, consideration, or approval of_

They visit Hailey three months after the baby is born.

Peter is her rock the whole time during the plane ride and subsequent drive. It isn't until her sister smiles at her and takes hold of her arm to show her to the nursery that she believes this is reality, her sister has forgiven her, her sister does still love her, her sister does want her in her life.

The baby is a beautiful little boy covered in a green blanket, napping with his butt propped up in the air and it amuses Emma to no end. She lets Hailey steer her out of the room a few minutes later and they flock to the kitchen, baby monitor in her sister's hand. Peter and Hailey's husband are there talking. The two share a small smile before the group conversation becomes lively and they're distracted.

Both Hailey and Emma are content with skirting around mentions of each other as they swap memories over the past decade and it works out well. Emma managed to extract some memorable stories from Peter when he trips up a few times. Polite as he is, he doesn't hold back when they pester him, even as he flushes as red as a tomato at times.

She loves it.

They leave an hour later and tell the new family where they are staying so they can see each other a few more times before their booked flight the day after. Barely any time passes when they check in to the hotel and get to their room before Peter picks her up enthusiastically and she lets him, arms wrapping around his neck, legs around his waist, giggling into his mouth.

"Why are we waiting?" He panted before nuzzling her neck.

Emma smiled coyly. "I never said we should wait."

It takes him off guard from whatever he thought the non-discussion meant and she pulls him into another kiss. They lose the next few hours in a haze and it feels like the honeymoon they didn't care about having.

* * *

  
**Volition** ::  _noun; the resulting choice or resolution_

"The fumes aren't good for the baby," Peter reminded her, trying to get her to stand.

She stayed sitting right where she was. "This room has three very big windows that are all open. I can't even smell the paint. And it's eco-friendly! It says it on the label. The baby and I are fine, Peter."

His expression was dubious but he didn't stop her when she pushed herself back up, one hand on her seven-month-along bulge and began helping him paint again. The room was going to be a lovely cheery yellow. It would be bright yet not distracting, pale yet not pastel. They had agonized over the shades intensely until neither of them could notice the difference between those they had narrowed down.

The flip of the coin had decided the final choice for them.

Boston was a much more spread out city than New York and they both agreed that since they were given the choice, they really didn't prefer raising a child in an apartment if they could help it. They found a quaint duplex neighborhood twenty minutes from their respective workplaces and moved around the time their child began to make its presence known to the outside world.

The paint roller was out of her hand a few seconds before she could comprehend it and Emma spun ungraciously around to find Sylar there, having telekinetically pulled it from her grasp. She crossed her arms and gave him a withering look. "Peter called you."

"Yup and if you don't go lose some brain cells in front of the TV then I won't be making you waffles."

She raised an eyebrow. He wouldn't dare. He knew how heavy her cravings were for those waffles.

Sylar raised one back. He so would. He knew he had the power in this argument.

Emma very slowly - on purpose - walked around him and out the door, glaring. Peter was nowhere in sight, no doubt hiding from the pregnant lady with the unpredictable hormones.

* * *

Annabel was born on the 4th of October, 2017, in the wee hours of the morning.

Emma doesn't remember much, overcome with the pain and drugs for most of the ordeal, but she does not think about that when she blinks her eyes open several hours later to find her small daughter in the visiting bed at her side. Peter is sitting next to them in a stained plastic chair, one hand entertwined with hers and the other reaching over the plastic sides to press the back of knuckles to Annabel's side, contented in his sleep with the mere touch.

Somehow, even after everything, she became one of the most lucky people in the world. Or at least, that was how it felt. But what was the difference?

* * *

  
**Waiver** ::  _noun; the voluntary relinquishment, expressly or by implication, of some claim or right_

She does not exactly have concrete proof, but Emma is almost positive that Claire and Sylar were in some kind of bet to see who could visit the newborn Petrelli the fastest. Sylar managed to beat her by almost two hours because he could fly but damn if Claire wasn't absolutely determined.

Emma sternly shushed both of them at the door, separately, before inviting them in and dropping warily in the rocker in the corner of the nursery. If anyone tells you they can sleep properly in a hospital, they are either lying or there is something wrong with them. They didn't have an overnight stay, technically, because they came in after midnight and were able to be discharged the afternoon after, but exhaustion knows no time limits. Sleep was elusive though as Emma was check up on every two to three hours steadily, never achieving any actual peace.

All she wanted was to experience the sleep of the dead for twelve hours. However, Peter had a shift tonight and Emma was too scared about not hearing Annabel cry to leave the nursery, baby monitor clutched in her hand. She was the only adult in the house. If she didn't hear Annabel, no one else would and no one else would tend to her needs.

Except that now Sylar and Claire were here and while they were risking waking the baby with their alternating bickering (at each other) and complimenting (of the baby) whispered over the crib, they were mature, responsible adults that could take care of a simple human being for a couple hours.

Emma smiled at them when they glanced back at her and then stood and shuffled down the hallway, collapsing face first on her bed. God, she had forgotten how soft this mattress was.

* * *

Annabel started crying less than four hours later.

Contrary to what Emma had feared, she bolted awake instantaneously. Adrenaline had her walking fast to the nursery, eyes wide awake. Sylar was rocking Annabel with Claire trying to shush her with a smile. It only made the baby cry louder. To her, the two adults were still strangers and they were strangers that were not understanding what she wanted, either.

He passed her daughter to her easily and Emma inspected all of the necessary areas on her mental checklist before coming to the conclusion that she was hungry. She pulled a blanket and set it over her shoulder, sitting in the rocking chair. Claire had figured out what she was going to do before Sylar did and she started pushing him out of the room. He understood after another minute - when she moved Annabel under the blanket - and the two of them left.

Emma had already covered herself up. She didn't mind. They were her two closest friends. Regardless, after they left, Annabel latched on and Emma rocked in the chair, eyes drifting to half-mast as the adrenaline started to leave her veins.

The room was beautiful, she observed once more. It was exactly as she pictured it. The white furniture gleamed. She almost let herself be hypnotized by the moving mobile over the crib but then Annabel let go and Emma rubbed along her back, burping her. She set Annabel back in her crib and the little girl shifted for ten minutes until she fell asleep with her own butt up in the air.

Emma smiled tiredly.

She found Sylar and Claire in the kitchen making coffee, standing closer as they spoke. They moved away when they saw her and Claire pushed a cup in front of her with sympathetic smile. Emma thanked her, too tired to bother filtering her words when she deadpanned, "Something's different with you two."

Sylar squirmed and Claire flushed before shrugging. She didn't look Sylar's way as she slid away from him with her own coffee cup. "You mean we're not trying to kill each other?" She said lightly, dodging the question.

"For the record I've never tried to kill you."

"Homecoming," Claire glared.

He stood very still. "Okay, once."

Emma shook her head. Her life was very odd sometimes. "I mean you're like... friends."

Claire sipped. "There's a... truce."

"Truce?" She leaned her elbows on the table, slouching even as the coffee's placebo affect started working on her faster than its actual caffeine content.

"For you, Peter, and Annabel."

Emma shifted her eyes between the two. They were serious. She felt her risidual hormones as tears welled in her eyes. "Annabel's a very lucky girl."

* * *

  
**Years** :: _noun; an indefinitely long period of time_

There are a lot of moments of happiness and sadness, excitement and dread, love and unease, the good and the bad, but when Emma thinks of her life, she regrets very few things. She makes it a point to continue laying flowers on Christopher's grave every couple of years, when she can. Hailey invites her to all the birthday and holiday parties and she makes those whenever she can, too.

She and Peter have four kids because they never really stopped leaving the possibility open. The saying about it all going downhill after the first kid is true - to the extent that they're too tired to put exuberant amounts of energy into each child's first six months the same as they did with Annabel.

Sylar and Claire are there, though, to help out in any ways they can. The truce lasts without trouble and while Sylar has a few more episodes like the one Emma witnessed first hand all by herself, they become less and less intense. Maybe it's the support system they give each other, maybe it's the maturity that comes with the years, maybe it's the perspective wiping up babies' bottoms gives. Whatever it is, it helps all of them just a little more with each passage of time.

* * *

"Don't forget your case!"

"I'm not an idiot, Mom," Nathan said with a roll of his eyes, rushing past Emma.

Peter poked his head in from where he was talking with their other three - and older - children outside. "Careful, Nathan."

Emma smiled, looking around the stoop one last time before grabbing for her bag, brushing a strand of now-dyed blonde hair out of her face. "You're always defending my honor," she teased as she brushed a light kiss to Peter's lips.

"I love you," he sighed and she palmed the emerging wrinkle lines on his face for a moment.

"I love you too."

Peter chuckled at the children over her shoulder. "We're coming!"

Emma shook her head and walked through the threshold, closing the door behind her.

* * *

  
**Zorille ::** _a carnivorous African mammal related to the weasel but resembling the skunk in appearance and in its method of defense_

The three year old weighed heavy against his chest as she avidly watched the documentary playing on the TV in front of her.

Everyone else was milling around in the main area of the house, all faces he knew but none he wanted to talk to at the moment. He gladly retreated to the corner room of the duplex-turned-single-unit-house, his best friends' most recent grandchild tucked against his side. He was delaying facing the inevitable and he knew it. Over the past nearly seventy years he had worked hard at ridding himself of self-denial but this time?

This time he would let it simmer for a while.

A knock sounded on the door and he craned his neck to see Claire poke her head in. They stared at each other wordlessly until he turned back to the disinteresting screen and she took that as affirmation as she shut the door with a click behind her, sitting beside him carefully.

He didn't mean to. Really. Sylar cast his eyes about the room aimlessly and they landed on her without much thought and once he saw it, he couldn't unsee it.

Still flowing tear tracks.

He reached out before he thought better of it and swiped them away with his fingers. She didn't flinch away. She hadn't for several years now but he was afraid to keep count. With both Peter and Emma gone now, technically the truce was over. The agreement had been fulfilled and she had no reason not to hate him and scream about it to everyone too.

Claire smiled sadly down at the little girl on his lap as she was fascinated by skunk-looking animals in the African wilds, completely oblivious to the mournful day. "She looks like Emma," Claire commented softly.

Sylar felt the sudden surge of grief chip away at him.

The forever youthful ex-cheerleader reached for him this time, gripping his hand in her own, and maybe it had to do with the reminder that they would lose everyone they care about, maybe it was the reminder that they already mostly had, but to Sylar, it didn't matter. He needed the touch just as much as she did, the reminder that they had each other.

The truce didn't matter anymore as he felt the budding of something so much more important, something he had yearned for all this time.

Forgiveness.


End file.
